Apologies
by ReNut
Summary: "They've been playing this game for a while now. He says he's terribly sorry, she laughs, or cries, or says nothing at all, and then she disappears." Post series finale. She's his conscious now.


**A/N** - _Just dropping this here. There's nothing else to be said, really. Title inspired from Apologies by Grace Potter & The Nocturnals. I'd listen to it while reading. Reviews are always great! Enjoy._

* * *

**Apologies**

"I'm sorry."  
Her eyes close. His words are all too familiar. He's been saying this a lot.  
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."  
Her eyes open. She's digging her nails onto her arm, her flesh unnaturally cold.  
He moves towards her. She disappears momentarily only to reappear behind his back a second later. He freezes. They've been playing this game for a while now. He says he's terribly sorry, she laughs, or cries, or says nothing at all, and then she disappears.

She always comes back a day later, claiming his tears and his sorrow, the ones she was never lucky enough to witness when she was still alive. There's a slight smudge of mud on his newly grown beard and she tempts not to wipe it away. He looks like a duffus so she laughs quietly, hoping he wouldn't hear. There are times when his hands are flying all over the place, groping the air, trying to find her, _feel_ her. She escapes then, finding a place usually in one of his cabin's corners, her knees raised to her chin.  
"Stop it." She sometimes says, hoping he would realize it was futile. He never does.

She crawls into his bed at night, when he's sound asleep. She wraps her arms around his strong figure that was getting slimmer over time. When his breath is getting steadier, she allows herself to tell him that yes, she knows, and sometimes she even forgives, but only sometimes. Once he even mumbles that she deserved better, and she finds it hard to hold up her ghostly tears, which for the record, are as hot and wet as the real ones.

A cup of bland coffee mug in hand, he opens his morning with the sun still hiding behind the heavy clouds of the night, staring out the window towards the nothingness that awaits him. A slight smile creeps to his dried lips when he's watching the sun arise from behind the mountains. _Her_ mountains. His smile quickly fades when he's reminded of the poor circumstances, of why he's really here. The defeat of his own war was weighing down on him, his shoulders slump by the weight.

He dreams about her, arms wrapped around him at night. Harry never comes by anymore. His goodbyes are long forgotten and the blood on his hands is slowly drying into a brown stain, never washable. And he tries. God knows he tries so badly to wipe them clean, to make that stain disappear, to revive the dead. But then he simply regrets it, whispering that the dead can't be revived, and they all deserved it anyway. Except for _her_.

"Wake up, fucktard." She's hurling a pillow over his head, laughing hysterically when he groans tiredly. His hand blindly shoots straight up to her waist, pulling her towards him. She's wearing one of his button-ups and her favorite pair of boyshorts and he can't help but smile when her hair comes to tickle his chin as she lands atop of him.  
"What time is it?" he regrets asking when a glimpse at the window tells him it's still early.  
"I don't know. I'm just fucking freezing." She states and rests her chin on his bare chest. He wraps the thick wool blanket around the both of them, tucking it tightly around her shoulders.  
"Fuck, you should probably get more blankets. Who would have thought – winter in Miami being a royal bitch." She comments, placing a light kiss on his neck.  
"We could always steal another one from Harrison." He mused aloud, his hand sneaking under her shirt, stroking her lower back. She gives him an appreciative moan.  
"Sure, let your kid freeze instead." She jokingly smacks his shoulder after a long moment of comfortable silence.  
"He has four of them." He simply justifies, his hand traveling down to rest on her ass.  
She groans, her hips slightly grinding against him, his erection pressed to her thigh.  
"Fuck, Dexter. I don't do morning sex, you know that." Another moan escapes her lips when his other hand joins the one already on her ass, squeezing lightly.  
"It's not even morning yet." He protests with a slight smirk in her ear, feeling her shiver under his not much of a subtle touch.  
"Good point." And with that, she gives in, her smile betraying her when she's switching into her 'sexy mode', as she once explained to him. "I should have never asked." He told her then, and she smacked his chest so hard that he wasn't surprised to find the red mark of her fingers on him later that day.

Her ghostly figure is always watching. Watching his dream self buried deep inside of what he imagined could be her in another dimension, in which she wasn't dead and he wasn't too late in realizing what it is they really shared.  
The Debra and Dexter in his dreams are always laughing. He never kills, and she seems to always smack or punch him in one way or another. She figures it must be his way of punishing himself even in his own dreams, letting her take it out on him whenever she possibly can.  
They always have sex, and it's always hot, and messy, and there are marks everywhere. She's always riding him, taking control of him by pulling on his hair while he fucks into her. She always comes twice at least, even three in special occasions. He likes to spend his time between her legs, showing her his appreciation when he sucks on her clit, making her legs quiver above his shoulders.  
Her ghostly self smiles then, knowing it's his way of fixing her, showing her how sorry he really is. She wonders if he knows that she's watching, if he intends on letting her watch all while he's touching himself, dreaming of her and everything that could have been.  
She hates to admit that the very idea sometimes frightens her. The scenery might change countless of times, but the only constant thing in his dreams is_ her_ how much she really loves him.

She thinks he's doing a great job with isolating himself from everything he has ever loved. The sound of the multiple chainsaws is deafening to him, yet he endures the images of blood, and the brief sound of a crying child.  
He takes the lives of trees now, trying to imagine their own heartbeats and non-existent crimes. It fails to calm him. He's never calm these days, just mostly numb. He's not much of a monster anymore, but a definite shadow of one, still neat, but in great pain. He pleas, she never obliges.  
"Just a hug." His voice is shaking and pathetic and she wants to kill him with a seven inch blade, right through his heart. She contemplates about whether his body shall end up 'tripping to the Gulf' with the rest of his victims, her amongst them all. She decides it's a poor punishment and she should probably come up with a better one.

She's there when he eventually dies.  
"You've done an awful job in being my conscious." He tells her minutes before his heart gives in to the eternal darkness.  
She chuckles and nods.  
"You've done an awful job in being _your_ conscious." She replies and he smiles. She realizes he never smiles much anymore. He stopped dreaming a few years back.  
"I'll save you a seat. Hurry the fuck up, Dexter." She tells him and buries her nose in the crook of his neck.  
"I love you, Deb." He chokes out. His eyes are dry. He's going to go with a smile. He's going to see her.  
She rolls her eyes. How cheesy of him. She wants to tell him she knows, but his last breath sweeps across her face, making her blink.

There are strong arms wrapped around her and they're real. Real in _her_ reality. Her eyes close.  
"I'm sorry."  
His words are all too familiar. He's been saying that a lot.


End file.
